A Parallel Rose
by con-notations
Summary: "But he who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose." -Anne Brontë. Evelyn Metharom is a prickly girl with an absolutely evil inner critic. After her mother goes missing and she discovers that there's more to life than school, band, and her abusive stepfather, she goes on an adventure to find her lost mother.


**A Parallel Rose**

**By con-notations**

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**April 3rd, 2014**

**Abuse, cussing trigger warning**

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"Brass, you're scooping!" My band director yelled to the back row, while furiously conducting us through a fanfare. I did my best to set my face through the next measure of quarter notes. When you're first chair in a terrible trumpet section, setting an example is that much harder. A prickle of annoyance ran through me as I heard a saxophone miss the key signature. "No, no, no, stop." Mrs. Richardson said, setting her baton down. She proceeded to thoroughly critique every aspect of the song, apparently forgetting that we were in seventh grade, and this was the third time we'd played the music all the way through.

"Flutes, it's in the key of B flat, for crying out l-" the bell rang, cutting her off. Everyone scrambled to clean and put away their instruments. Band, although it could be frustrating and infuriating, was my favorite class. I loved the power that came from blowing a raspberry through a piece of metal and making beautiful music, or producing an earsplitting sound.

I play more than just the trumpet, though. I also play the piano, french horn, tuba, and flute. In band class, I usually choose to play the trumpet because 1) Our trumpet players suck, and Mrs. Richardson wants me to help, 2) because the flute section is full of annoying, airheaded, girly-girls, 3) because I'm not very good at reading bass clef notes, which you need to be able to do to play the tuba and 4) because we have about three hundred gazillion french horn players already. I really want to learn how to play the sax and the oboe, but reeds, which you need to make a sound, can get _really __expensive_, and my step-dad, Joe, doesn't approve of my "band nerd shit." But since he's my legal guardian...

That's the thing about me. Everyone thinks that I hate them, because _everything is about them_, but in reality, the only person I _really_ hate is Joe. He's a tall, muscular, tanned beefcake that shaved his head bald so no one would know about his receding hairline. His teeth gleamed white, (he bleaches them regularly) but his eyes gave off such an air of untrustworthiness that I never believed a word he said. He managed a factory that made syringes for hospitals. His job was to be the mean guy who made sure everyone worked, and oh, did that job suit him.

I walked into the last class of the day, art, and set my books down on the floor underneath my chair. Because Joe was not a patient man, and I didn't want to have to go all the way back to the band room to get my instrument, I took my trumpet case with me, setting it down next to my stuff.

I supposed I could be good at drawing, if I practiced. That's why when they asked me what exploratory classes I would take this year, I signed up for art. I lost myself in the project that was assigned to the class, and before I knew it, the bell rang. I knew if I didn't hurry up, Joe would leave me forcing me to walk home, so I put my things in my backpack quickly and rushed to the front of the school... where I saw him driving away. _Oh, well. _I thought. _At least I can get some practice._ I walked back into the school, intending to practice on the school piano, since I didn't have one at home. Like Joe would worry if I was an hour late coming home anyways...

After a good forty-five minutes of _Moonlight Sonata_, I walked home, my black combat boots dragging on the sidewalk. I usually dressed punk-style. My favorite jacket was black leather and it had spikes on the shoulders. The sorts of shirts I usually wore had my favorite bands or sayings. I wished I could dye my hair another color besides black... but Joe would never pay for me to get my hair dyed, and at thirteen, I was too young for a job. I wore dark jeans, but I never got them pre-ripped. I'm not fake. _That's the funniest joke you've come up with in a long time_. I admonished myself.

The moment I stepped in the door, Joe rounded on me. "Why the hell did it take you so long to get here? You need to mow the backyard."

"I just got here!" I said.

"I just looked outside, and the grass isn't cut! Now get your lazy ass outside."

"Jesus fucking Christ, I haven't even set my stuff down yet!" I yelled. Joe slapped me across the face. "You watch your mouth!"

With tears in my eyes, I ran into my room, slamming the door behind me. Throwing my backpack and trumpet against the wall, I jumped onto my bed, sobbing into my pillow. _Evelyn Lena Metharom, pull yourself together! What would your mother say if she saw you like this?_ My inner critic demanded. _Well, I wouldn't know, as __she's been missing for six months!_ I snarked back._Stop blaming everyone else for your problems! What are you, six? Take some responsibility for yourself, you useless child!_

_ I would, if it was me who was causing my problems!_

_ You are causing your problems! Why didn't you just do what Joe told you?_

_ I'm causing myself problems by not putting up with abuse?_

_ No, you're causing yourself problems by crying about it in your room like the pathetic little girl you are!_

_ I'm not pathetic!_

_ Then get out there and take care of yourself!_

I composed myself and went into the kitchen to get something to eat, or some water at least. I opened the fridge, and a voice behind me said "what do you think you're doing?"

I jumped, turning around. Joe loomed behind me, and shut the refrigerator door. He grabbed me around the bicep, turning me around, and pushed me against the counter. I gasped as my back hit the edge painfully. Joe looked downright murderous. "I said," his voice was quiet "what do you think you're doing?"

"I-I'm... getting fo-"

"Get out there and mow the lawn, you spineless piece of shit!"

This time, I shuffled into the backyard, rubbing my back.

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The next day, as I was sitting in the sweltering heat of my fifth period class, not paying attention to Mr. Jacobs lecturing about Fort Sumter, the door opened, and some kid I didn't know stepped inside the room, letting the door slam. He glanced at it as he stepped inside.

"Um, I'm the new student." He said, looking uncomfortably around at the kids staring at him.

"Class, this is Nicolas Belby." Mr. Jacobs droned. He is a new student here at Pascal and we are going to show him the very best attitude that our school can offer." He said in a flat voice. "Now, you may sit next to that young lady in the back row." He pointed to the empty desk next to me. Nicolas shuffled to his seat.

"Much like the Battle of Lexington and Concord, the Battle of Fort Sumter was the first battle of the..."

_This boy better not talk to me, this boy better not talk to me, this boy better not talk-_ "Hey, uh, do you know where Mrs. Richardson's room is?" He asked. I turned to look at him, my eyes narrowed. He had light hair, but not exactly blond. His face had several pimples on it, and he wore an expression of uneasiness, getting uneasier the longer I stared at him. His shirt was red with the Marvel logo on the front, and he wore light jeans that didn't fit him very well. I looked straight into his dark eyes. "Why, are you in band?" I asked quietly. He glanced down. "Yeah." He wispered.

"What do you play?"

"Clarinet." He looked up again. "And oboe and bassoon. And piano."

I raised my eyebrow. "Really?" I said skeptically.

"Yeah." He looked at his shoes again.

"I'm going there next too, you can follow me."

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**Alright, so I hope you liked it? I'm planning on updating in a week or so, let me know if you think I should continue it or not. I probably will no matter what you say, but it's nice to get feedback.**

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**Disclaimer: I don't own the Percy Jackson series, I didn't say I was. Why are you putting words in my mouth? Rude.**


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